


In the Aftermath

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Spoilers, The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:45:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small fluffy ficlets post-season 2, because I can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After

Greg had been to the Diogenes twice before, each time to receive orders couched in gracious requests: please look after my brother, Detective Inspector.

Amazing, how easily you could fail, well, everyone.

He was delivered to a small office by the shuffling attendants, who left behind a tray with a small tea service. Greg busied himself pouring two cups, and tried to think of what Mycroft Holmes would take in his tea.

The door opened, almost silently, and Greg turned with the pot still in hand. Mycroft looked pleasantly surprised at the uppermost layer, amused at the second layer, and that was as far as Greg was usually able to get. He privately called the third layer “permafrost.”

But there seemed to have been some hard thaw lately. Perhaps losing your brother did that to you.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector,” he said, just the slightest hint of weariness in his voice. Greg tried not to feel like a giant bruise (please look after my brother).

“How d’you take it?” Greg asked, gesturing with his own cup and taking a cautious sip.

“Unadulterated, thank you,” Mycroft answered smoothly, and carefully took the second cup and saucer. He sat on the edge of the desk, seeming to study his tea, but Greg hadn’t been taken in by that trick for ages. Holmeses were studying you hardest when it seemed like they were interested in anything else.

There was no hope in pretending he was here for anything other than what he was, so. "I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Mycroft said politely. It spoke to the weight of his preoccupation that it took seconds for him to catch up. "Ah. About my brother. Thank you.”

“I know—” Greg put down his cup and swallowed back the acrid taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with tea. "I was supposed to look after him, and I couldn’t. I am—I am extremely sorry. More than you can know. I’m sorry.”

He stared down at his cup, at its milky colour and its faintest wisps of steam. There would be no recriminations. There didn’t have to be. He’d failed, and that was the price of it: Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Please look after my brother.

The cup clicked heavily on wood and Greg looked up to see Mycroft covering his face with one hand, a smile that was twisted with pain tightening his lips. He bit his own lip hard and said, “I’m sorry, really—”

“He was never your responsibility, Inspector,” Mycroft managed, voice still husky and strange for all its control.

“Like hell he wasn’t!” Greg burst out.

“I—”

“He was my friend,” Greg interrupted, walking around the small table that held the service. Mycroft watched him, hand still half-curled over his mouth, eyes bright with pain. Guilt. Self-recrimination. "I should have looked after him better. I should have. And I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“There wasn’t anything you could have done,” Mycroft whispered. There was something dark and bleak in his eyes. "He had run out of options.”

Greg half-laughed, biting back a curse. "You say that—”

“I mean that!” Mycroft’s voice was loud enough to make Greg flinch, and he stepped back. Mycroft ducked his head, breathing in deeply. His hands clenched on the edge of the desk where he sat. "There was no one else in the world like James Moriarty. I pray… I pray there never will be again.”

“Mycroft,” Greg said, moving closer.

“We had no other choice,” Mycroft whispered. His eyes were closed now. A thin, bright line of moisture showed under his lashes. "One way or the other, my brother was to lose everything he loved.”

“He didn’t lose anything,” Greg said. His voice was quiet and earnest. "We’ll find Moriarty. We’ll prove—”

Mycroft looked up, a bright, pained smile stretching his lips. "But you won’t. You won’t find him. That’s not part of it.”

“Mycroft—”

Mycroft’s fingers, gentle and cold, touched his lips. Greg stopped talking; he almost stopped breathing.

“You’re right,” Mycroft said, his tone low but light. "He hasn’t lost anything. Not anything he wanted to keep.”

He leaned close and his lips, warmer than his fingers but still cool, brushed over Greg’s, his fingers carefully tipping Greg’s chin.

“Thank you,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to meet Greg’s stunned gaze, “for looking after my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this particular fic, Mycroft has helped Sherlock, knows everything, and has hidden Moriarty's death to keep his network from retaliating. If... if that wasn't obvious.


	2. Nothing Quite so Lofty

Lestrade had been up to see it once more, after the funeral.

It had really been a lovely do. Closed casket, of course. Apparently Sherlock’s face—Lestrade shook his head, stomping hard on that line of thought. He wasn’t going to think about it. Just the memory of Mrs. Hudson and John—

It was the rain, that's what it was. It had rained hard the day before the funeral, and a bit that morning. Just the rain, making him remember. Making him think.

Christ, what an idiot he’d been, not to stop it. Somehow. To allow Moriarty to turn the Met against Sherlock, too. He rather viciously uncorked a bottle of red and poured himself a glass, trying to think if there was anything edible in the flat.

It wasn’t likely.

He took his wine and wandered into the sitting room, looking at the rain-streaked windows, the shattered reflection of light. Thought about lunch with Donovan; “too fucking clever by half,” she’d said, and cried at the table.

The door opened quietly and the smell of something rich and delicious wafted into the room; “Have you eaten?” Mycroft called, and Lestrade smiled.

“Not since you brought me lunch,” he said, unable to turn away from the window. "Shouldn’t I be doing that for you?”

“Don’t be silly,” Mycroft murmured. There was a clinking of plates from the kitchen. "You’re hardly allowed to know where I am during the day. And I’d rather you focused on the investigation.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and turned to him at last, noting a small spark of pleasure at the sight of Mycroft Holmes, jacket off, carefully divvying up a few portions of Chinese takeaway. "Sherlock will be cleared—”

“Of course Sherlock will be cleared,” Mycroft said, sounding mildly put out. He shot a dark look at Lestrade. "That was never in question. But you’ve a bit of work to do, to shine up your own reputation.”

“And whose fault is that?” Lestrade asked, swaying towards the kitchen. He looked down and was mildly amused, mildly worried to note that he’d nearly finished his glass. Must have been woolgathering longer than he’d thought.

Mycroft took the glass from his hand and set it down on the counter, frowning in very mild censure. "Eat, please.”

He wasn’t very hungry.

“Please,” Mycroft said again at Lestrade’s hesitation. "I’ve nothing in the world to comfort me but you.”

“Never should have kissed you at your brother’s funeral,” Lestrade muttered, sitting down and picking up a fork. "You’re bossy and you worry too much.” Mycroft’s hand rested on his hair until he looked up, annoyance twisting his mouth. "You have to eat, too.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, and took a seat as well.

They ate in a companionable silence; Mycroft got up once more to get them both wine, and Lestrade rinsed the dishes when they’d finished. He packed up the rest of the takeaway while Mycroft leaned against his back, arms around his waist, forehead pressed to his hair.

“Do you believe in God?” Mycroft whispered, so softly Lestrade almost didn’t understand it.

“Some days,” he answered.

They sat together on the sofa, Lestrade curled up into Mycroft’s side, Mycroft lazily petting and tugging at Lestrade’s hair. The telly remained off; they watched the play of light on the window, the wild rivulets of rain.

“I don’t,” Mycroft said suddenly, quietly.

Lestrade looked up at him. "Hm?”

“I don’t believe in God.” Mycroft’s gaze was distant. "I don’t think I can. Not by faith alone.”

“What do you believe in, then?” Lestrade asked.

Mycroft smiled, slow and sad and beautiful. "Shakespeare.” He looked sideways at Lestrade, his smile deepening. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.”

“Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Lestrade finished. He took a slow, thoughtful drink of his wine. "And that’s not God?”

“No,” Mycroft whispered. His gaze was distant, but the point to which it reached was high. "Nothing quite so lofty.”

“But mysterious and beautiful for all of that?” Lestrade asked, taking another quick sip.

Mycroft’s smile was bright with mirth, and he pressed a wine-sweet kiss to Lestrade’s mouth. "Mummy always thought so,” he said, and laughed at Lestrade’s confusion.


End file.
